


Sick Day

by imaginationisrainbowcoloured



Series: Newsies Reincarnation [3]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Reincarnation, Romantic Fluff, Sick Character, Sickfic, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins-centric, mentions of vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:15:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27416362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginationisrainbowcoloured/pseuds/imaginationisrainbowcoloured
Summary: “You’re ill, Spot, you need rest and chicken soup.”“I’m fine.” He objected.Race responded to this by just staring him down until Spot took an ill-advised step forwards and the room spun again, hard enough that he found himself falling into Race. Race didn’t even make a joke of it, just stabilised them both and pushed Spot into one of the kitchen chairs.“You’re not.” He said gently, placing a hand over Spot’s forehead.
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Series: Newsies Reincarnation [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1986400
Comments: 5
Kudos: 47





	Sick Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Firecracker_Newsie (Enjolras_The_Survivor)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enjolras_The_Survivor/gifts).



It was a Saturday when Spot woke up feeling worse than he ever had before, and that was saying something considering some of the previous foster homes he had been in.

Denton had left earlier, going back to the school to catch up on some marking because he ‘wouldn’t get anything done with you lot around’. Hotshot had left a note saying that she had gone to Brooklyn to hang out with some of the old newsies, and everyone else was just gone. He put Hotshot’s note in the recycling and texted her to tell he had got it. 

Sometimes he wished he could go with her, but it was probably better that he didn’t; he didn’t want to deal with the awkwardness of having to try and hang out casually with people who still saw him as their ruler. He had loved being King of Brooklyn back then. Now it was just something that set him apart socially.

The kitchen swerved sideways unexpectedly, and he found himself lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling. 

“Shit.”

He lay there for several minutes, waiting for the room to stop moving and pulled himself back up using the table and the worktop as braces. As soon as he was upright again, the room began moving and he threw up into the sink.

“Shit.”

He spat out the remaining saliva, trying to remove the nasty taste and turned on the tap, thankful that he had somehow managed to aim in a way that avoided most of what would have been necessary cleaning up. Apparently he wasn’t going to get anything done today.

Resigned to the fact he grabbed a sick bowl, a bottle of water from the fridge and slowly made his way back to his room, where he promptly collapsed on his bed. The only saving grace of everything was the fact that no one else was home and he didn’t have to pretend he was fine or deal with them trying to look after him.

His body returned slowly to sleep, dragging him down with it until he was comfortably in the quiet space between sleep and wake, floating in a happy way and not feeling as awful as he did. This was of course the moment that someone proceeded to bang on the door loud enough to wake the dead. He groaned and wondered if it was worth getting up to let them in when his phone chimed.

It was Race. They were supposed to go out today. Spot had forgotten and was a terrible boyfriend.

He dragged himself back out of bed, quickly shoved on jeans instead of pyjama trousers, ran a hand through his hair and walked back through the house to the front door. Race was bouncing nervously outside, dressed in a nice blue t-shirt and his normal black jeans. 

“Hey.”

“He- you look awful.” Race told him, concern clouding his tone.

“I’m fine. Let’s go.” Spot attempted to gently push past Race and close the door behind him, but he was ill and his reflexes were slow enough that Race managed to grab his arm and pull both of them back inside.

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“You’re ill, Spot, you need rest and chicken soup.”

“I’m fine.” He objected.

Race responded to this by just staring him down until Spot took an ill-advised step forwards and the room spun again, hard enough that he found himself falling into Race. Race didn’t even make a joke of it, just stabilised them both and pushed Spot into one of the kitchen chairs. 

“You’re not.” He said gently, placing a hand over Spot’s forehead.

Briefly, Spot was remined of similar situations, over a hundred years ago when Race had insisted on selling while sick, and some of the Brooklyn newsies had carried him from where he had fainted in the streets. Their positions had been reversed then, Spot had been the one standing over Race worried; he had had a reason to be worried then, even with a simple illness Race could have died. They hadn’t had any medicine, hadn’t been able to afford a doctor.

“Spot!” Race’s panicked voice snapped him out of his memories.

“Hmm?”

“You zoned for a bit there, you good?” 

“Yeah.” Even to his own ears Spot sounded a little distant, a little off.

“Okay.” Race replied, watching him carefully, “I’m going to find Denton’s medicine cabinet, stay here, okay?”

Spot thought he might have nodded, but everything was a little foggy, and the rushing of blood in his ears was louder than Race’s voice.

He must have drifted off because he remembered vaguely taking the medicine that Race had found, and then he woke up again, back in his own bed, with the smell of chicken broth covering the house. Dragging himself out of bed for the third time that day he made his way down to the kitchen, where Race was stirring a pot large enough to be used as a boat.

“Hey.” He croaked, and Race turned around,

“Hey, how are you feeling?”

“Better.” And he was, the awful stuffy feeling, like his brain was cotton wool, had cleared and he felt way more present than he had before, despite the fact that his nose was still running, and his throat hurt a little.

“Good. I made chicken broth!” Race gestured at the giant pot, and Spot moved over to peer in. It was almost full.

“I’m not gonna eat all that.”

“Yeah…” Race did look a little sheepish, “I may have gone an incy bit overboard.”

*

The Denton household, plus Race, had chicken broth for dinner that night, alongside fresh bakery bread that Hotshot had been told to buy on her way back. And there might still have been a load left over, but it was universally agreed that it was the best chicken broth any of them had ever had.

**Author's Note:**

> this is for Firecracker_Newsie (Enjolras_The_Survivor) who suggested a fic where Spot is sick & race goes overboard in making chicken soup, i hope this lives up to ur expectations
> 
> im planning on doing how spot & race met next in the reincarnation series so uhhh feel free to offer ideas, im a little swamped w school stuff atm but i hope to get round to it before Christmas


End file.
